When the Laird Returns (21 page)

T
he stench of smoke was being carried with Iseabal in the breeze. To travel at night and alone was unthinkable, even if the destination was her childhood home. But there were considerations more vital than safety.

Where was Alisdair?

Fernleigh stood tall and ominous in the darkened countryside, not one glimmer of light penetrating its thick walls. No welcoming lantern was hung by the front door, and the moonlight, shining silver on its corners, made her childhood home appear like the chimney of Hell.

Iseabal dismounted, tying the horse’s reins to the ironwork in front of one window. Rage and grief vied with each other, rising to fill her chest and swamping any other feelings. She pushed her way past the guard, determined that no one would stop her from finding Alisdair.

Inside the clan hall, a few tapers had been lit in a grudging
concession to night. Her mother sat in her customary place beside the cold fireplace, her father drinking at his table. For once he was alone, his cadre of followers absent for the night.

Leah glanced up, her expression one of shock upon seeing Iseabal. She stood, dropping her needlework on the chair behind her. A second later Iseabal was enfolded in her mother’s arms.

“I thought you gone, Iseabal,” Leah said, patting her cheeks, examining her from toes to head in a sweeping glance.

The screech of wood against the stone floor made Iseabal turn. Her father sat back in his chair, surveying her.

“You’re not welcome in this place, Iseabal MacRae. Go back to your husband and tell him that I’ll not return his money for you.”

“Where is he?” she said, standing in the middle of the clan hall. Her hands were clenched behind her, and her heart beat a pounding rhythm so strong she could hardly breathe. “Where is Alisdair?”

“Have you lost your husband, girl? Barely a month wed and he’s already fled from you?” He glanced at his wife, and added dismissively, “I should have suspected as much, if that one taught you in the womanly arts.”

As she took one more step toward him, Iseabal could feel the cold stone of the flooring through the leather of her shoes. Stone no more warm than this man’s heart.

“Where have you taken him?” she asked, her voice level and harsh. Did he sense what she was feeling? Was that why he straightened in his chair, loosening his grip on the tankard? His eyes narrowed, his lips turned down, expressions of disfavor she’d seen every time they’d met.

“What has happened, Iseabal?” Leah asked.

Without taking her gaze from her father, Iseabal answered her.

“He burned a village, Mother. For the sake of his sheep. Alisdair tried to intervene. He’s been missing ever since.” She couldn’t utter the other words, images that remained out of sight, just beyond thought. He had not been shot; he was not dead. She would know it, be feeling something other than this killing rage.

Drummond stood abruptly, striding to her side. He raised an arm to her and she smiled, the gesture halting him.

“Hit me,” she dared him. “Silence me with your fists. I have thirty men at my command,” she said in a low, threatening tone. “Thirty men who would willingly force you to reveal what you know. Or kill you. We’ll see how brave you are when confronting someone other than my mother and me.”

He struck her then, but Iseabal didn’t flinch from the blow.

“Where did you take him?” she asked, wiping the blood from her lip. The pain inside was greater than anything her father could do to her.

“To Cormech,” her mother whispered.

Iseabal spun around to find her mother staring at Drummond. Leah knew, Iseabal suddenly realized, wishing that the knowledge wasn’t there in her mother’s stricken look.

“He sells his clansmen at Cormech,” Leah said, her voice trembling. “As bonded servants. Or as slaves.”

“Shut up, woman,” Drummond snapped. “You know nothing of my business.”

“I know that you used to send them to the Carolinas, in the colonies,” Leah said, “but with talk of the rebellion, you had to find another place.” She pointed to her chair. “I sit there
day after day at your command. Do you think that I don’t hear you, don’t know what you’ve done?”

She took Iseabal’s arm, standing in mute defense of her daughter. Not the first time she’d done so, Iseabal thought, but the only occasion in which Iseabal had known the extent of her father’s greed and crimes.

“I don’t know where he sends them now,” Leah said.

When her father raised his hand again, Iseabal grabbed his wrist. “Are you going to beat us both, Drummond?”

Releasing him, Iseabal stepped away. The anger she’d felt had deepened, altering her. She was no longer afraid of him. She felt nothing at all, neither fear nor conscience. In the depths of her heart there might have once been a wish for understanding, or a seed of compassion.

At one time she’d wanted to believe the best of him, had wanted him to be the kind of man who, instead of frightening her, would show some affection. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d thought that a piece was missing in the puzzle that was her father. All Iseabal had to do was find it and then she would understand why he was the way he was. Why he took so much pleasure in his power over others, why he treasured money over his family.

But there was, she abruptly realized, no missing piece of Magnus Drummond. He was always as he had been; the only difference now was that she was seeing him without hope clouding her vision.

Leah bowed her head, the arch of her neck rendering her vulnerable at that moment. She became, as Iseabal watched, a frail woman in a world that was not disposed to tolerate the weak. But there were other victims this night, people who might have been spared, had Leah spoken earlier.

“Why?” Iseabal asked, moving back from her mother. “Why did you never say anything? Or do anything?”

Leah raised her head, her eyes swimming with tears. “What do you expect me to have done, Iseabal? Do you think people would listen to me? There were enough to know what he was doing, and not one hand was ever lifted to stop it.”

“Get out of my house, daughter,” Magnus said, his voice slightly slurred.

Glancing over at him, Iseabal allowed her anger free reign. “Don’t call me that again,” she said sharply. “I wish to God I weren’t of your blood. But rest assured, I’ll spend my entire life making amends for it.”

“You do that,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know where your husband is, but you can tell the MacRae that I’ll be watching as he’s driven from Gilmuir. I’ll go to court and win that land back as rightly mine.”

“I doubt you’ll fare well against English magistrates,” she said dismissively. “Alisdair MacRae is an English lord now. The Earl of Sherbourne.”

“Is he, now?” he asked, striding back to the table. Sitting, he peered into the bottom of his tankard. “Or maybe he’s just a ghost.”

Iseabal knew, as she passed beneath the arch, that she would never come here again. The
Fortitude
had proved more a home. This had never been a welcoming place, and now it truly was an empty shell.

Looking back at the two of them, Iseabal wondered why she had never before seen her parents quite this way. She might as well have been a foundling, so removed did she feel from either of them.

She would go to Cormech with the crew of the
Fortitude
and search every ship in the harbor in order to find Alisdair. And if that did not prove successful, she would travel the world to rescue him.

M
oonlight illuminated the loch, granting a silvery hue to each undulating wave and touching Gilmuir with amplifying shadows. For centuries the fortress had stood, a welcoming haven to any MacRae and a warning to the invader. Tonight the lanterns glowed brightly, and when someone closed a shutter or moved the light across the courtyard, it appeared as if a dozen glowing eyes were blinking at her.

She crossed the land bridge slowly, noting the changes done in her absence. A triangular sail had been strung across a series of poles, providing an adequate shelter for the villagers, if not a luxurious one. A hot meal was being served, the cook waving a ladle at those not quick enough to come and eat. Blankets were being unrolled, old men and older women helped to what comfort Gilmuir now offered.

As she rode into the encampment, the noise seemed to fade until Iseabal realized that she was again the object of at
tention. Dismounting, she leaned against the horse, feeling a trembling need to surrender to the grayness for a while. Exhaustion drained her, made the journey from Fernleigh feel as long as that to London. Worry held her tight as if it were a rope wound around her chest. For an hour or two, however, she wanted to feel nothing, be numb, pretend that Alisdair was aboard the
Fortitude
and would soon join her. Or convince herself that she was in the midst of a dream and none of this was real.

But the fog of this grief was too thin and painful, allowing enough glimpses into the world to prove that all of it was actually happening.

She straightened, realizing that only after Alisdair was found would she be able to relax.

“You should come and rest,” a voice said.

She glanced over her shoulder to find Brian there, a carefully bland expression on his face. Had she been rude to him? Had she offended him in some way? She couldn’t remember, and if an apology were necessary, it seemed beyond her.

“Did you learn anything, mistress?”

“I believe he’s been taken to Cormech.”
If he’s alive
.

“Cormech?”

“Where clansmen are sold as slaves,” Iseabal said dully. If she could distance herself from her birth, she would have. What part of her was most like her father? She would find it and excise it, remove it—whatever it was.

“How soon can we leave?” she asked.

“It isn’t safe in the darkness,” Brian said, stepping away from her.

She would find Alisdair in a driving storm, at midnight, in the midst of a gale, she thought. Any time at all. But she un
derstood the young man’s fears well enough. “There’s a road to Inverness,” she said. “From there we should be able to find our way to Cormech. Even in the dark.”

He nodded and walked away. Paying no heed to the stones littering the courtyard, Iseabal walked to the edge of the cliff. A barrier of rock, knee-high, either man-made or crafted by nature, warned the wary that beyond this point was a steep drop to the loch below.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Iseabal stood staring out over the water. Beyond her vision was Coneagh Firth, and still farther, the sea. Alisdair’s ocean.

God would not give to her with one hand and take joy away with the other. Or perhaps that was how happiness came, in rare bursts that must be balanced with sorrow in order to appreciate them. Surely life was not set on such a delicate fulcrum of penance and pleasure. If so, she’d not valued those moments with Alisdair sufficiently, not nearly enough to offset the rest of her life without him.

Turning, Iseabal walked back to the other side of the courtyard, passing a group of men milling around Brian. Torchlight revealed their somber faces and the surface of the map the young man was unrolling.

Another group of men was placing lanterns around the perimeter of the ruins, working to the sound of their own thoughts. None of them, she noted, looked in her direction, and if they spoke among themselves, it was in such a hushed whisper she could not hear it.

Iseabal could have pointed out those treacherous spots, those places where the ground felt weak or a leaning column should be avoided. But such a warning needed voice, and at the moment, she was incapable of speech.

She kept walking, her feet smarting from the sharp
stones, her hands pressed together so tightly that her wrists ached.

At the cliffside once more, Iseabal stared out at the loch unthinkingly. The wind sighed low and mournfully around Gilmuir, as if fearing the depth of night. The stars seemed to blink as if the fast-moving clouds obscured their vision. Or perhaps they wept, each sparkle a droplet, each wisp of cloud a celestial finger brushing against a damp, starry eyelid.

For a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself to think the worst. How could she bear it if he were dead? Alisdair, of the teasing smiles and the glint of humor in his lovely eyes. The man who ruffled the hair of his cabin boy and laughed aloud at another of Daniel’s superstitions. How easily it was to recall him bending over Patricia’s hand, or gently kissing her faded cheek. How much more painful to remember him only hours before, standing on the knoll with her, his eyes filled with an expression that made her heart feel buoyant.

“If I might have a word with you, mistress?” Brian said from behind her. Iseabal turned, glancing over his shoulder at the small shelter the sailors had constructed.

“We’ve tried to make you as comfortable as we could,” he said, leading the way.

A surprisingly cozy place, she thought, the oiled canvas offering protection against the night, the brazier giving off warmth with strangely little smoke. Someone had built a creative bench of rocks for her, and a sleeping pallet had been arranged. She might have been at ease here at another time, when her mind was not filled with thoughts of Alisdair and her heart was not a stone.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Brian didn’t seem to expect more. Unrolling a map, he tilted it to the light. “I’ve a suggestion, mistress.” He curled
the map back to show her. “We’re here,” he said, pointing to a spot. “And here’s Cormech,” he added, drawing his finger southwest. “On horseback, we’d have to circle Inverness and back up and around Moray Firth.”

Iseabal remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

“It would be a faster journey by sea,” he said, rolling up the map once again. “We can reach the port easier by taking the
Fortitude.
”

“I gather it that the sail is from the
Molly Brown,
then?” she asked wryly, glancing over at the improvised shelter.

“The captain is an understanding man,” Brian replied, a touch of wickedness to his grin. Iseabal couldn’t help but wonder what kind of inducements had been offered for him to be so.

“Can we not leave now?” she asked quietly.

“We’d never navigate around the cove,” he said, his eyes understanding. “But if we left at dawn, we’d still be there faster than if we traveled all night.”

She nodded in reluctant agreement. “At dawn, then,” she said, wishing that she had the power to command the sun.

He made a curious little bow before leaving her.

Sitting on the stone bench, her feet flat on the ground, her knees at a perfectly squared angle, her head bent forward so she could study her clasped hands, Iseabal wondered if anyone peering into the tent would realize how close she was to crying.

Alisdair blinked open his eyes, staring up at the sky above him. There should be stars, he thought, but in their place were gray clouds obscuring the moon like a gauzy veil.

His head ached abominably, as if it had cracked open and his senses were lying in a pool beneath him. He smiled at the
errant thought, willing his headache away. But instead of vanishing as each moment passed, it seemed to escalate, the pulse beat of his heart replicated by the hammers slamming against his skull.

Along with the pain was another feeling, one rendering him even more uncomfortable. His thoughts were foggy, the very reason for his lying here unknown to him. He closed his eyes, focused on the last memory he had. Even that seemed elusive, as if the pain had taken over all of his mind.

Stretching out his hand, Alisdair touched a coat sleeve. Turning his head, he saw a man sprawled in exhausted slumber beside him, and beyond him yet another. Fighting back the pain, he raised his head. There were scores of people in the open field, not merely men, but women and quietly sobbing children.

Where was he? Who was he?

Alisdair MacRae.

He lay back down again, satisfied that his mind seemed to be working despite the pain. He captained a ship. More, he built them. His home? Cape Gilmuir, Nova Scotia.

Reciting a litany of knowledge about himself, Alisdair realized the words were not as reassuring as he wished. Something was missing, some great part of his life, like a black and shadowed void.

He lay flat, his legs straight, his toes pointed to the sky. A pose for his coffin, but even that thought was not as terrifying as the gaps in his knowledge.

“Get up!” a voice shouted, and people began to rouse around him.

A child cried and he winced at the sound, turning his head to see a woman raise herself up to shield her frightened child with her body. Above them stood the shrouded figure
of a man. He drew back his boot and kicked again, but from here Alisdair couldn’t see if the other man had struck the child or not.

“Didn’t I tell you to get up?”

Alisdair felt his arms being jerked, and found himself being lifted by two men. He could stand, but the words to assure them of that fact wouldn’t come. All at once he wasn’t at all sure he could stand, let alone walk. But it didn’t seem to matter, because he was being dragged like a dead weight between the two men.

He felt like a planed timber floating in the ocean. He was becoming waterlogged, sinking to the bottom of the sea, never to be found again.